


Civic Duty

by LadyArinn



Series: Various Weddings for Various Pairings [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canada, Hiding, Kissing, Living Together, Love, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Past Relationship(s), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Running Away, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 12:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13458021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyArinn/pseuds/LadyArinn
Summary: He'd given up everything, including himself, for his country, for his new life in this future he had found himself forced into. But he refused to give up Bucky.





	Civic Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This was not supposed to be this, but what can you do? Writing never goes right, and it's always better in the end.
> 
> Enjoy!

After coming out of the ice and being brought back from the dead like even that wasn’t allowed to him once he signed his body over to grand ol’ America and her army, he’d been adrift. Nothing had been right, nothing had been  _ sane _ , and he’d simply lowered his head and marched forward in an effort to keep everything together. 

He wore the clothes SHIELD bought him, got his groceries delivered after they were selected and searched through by a SHIELD operative, and he lived his carefully monitored life. Every day he’d gone from his SHIELD apartment to SHIELD, and then he’d go off on the missions he was directed to by SHIELD, and then back to the apartment to rinse and repeat the next day, every movement watched over by shield agents. On weekends he’d gone to a cafe he’d found that served coffee that didn’t taste too bad, dark and thick in a way that wasn’t popular now, then he’d go to see Peggy, and at the end of the day if his heart felt empty inside his chest he’d go to the Smithsonian and sit there in the past to try and prove to himself that it was all gone.

That maybe, what he had been was gone too.

He’d just started to branch out more, to test the waters by reaching out like with Sam, just starting to get his feet under him in this strange new world when Bucky… When Bucky.

And in this new world of noise and speed and of Steve Rogers and his life being a fucking history lesson for everyone else, that Bucky is still there and  _ alive _ … It’s like there’s meaning again, like there’s color in a world that had gone grey and bland like ashes in his mouth. It didn’t matter what he had to do. It didn’t matter where he had to go. If he could get to Bucky, if he could keep that one part of his life from before and have it now… He would do anything to get that back.

He  _ does  _ do anything and everything, leaving it all to burn burn behind him just to have Bucky  back again.

“It’s not going to be the same.” Bucky grits out roughly, stopping just as soon as they’ve started running, not far enough away for either of their comfort but he needed to offer a choice. He had to let Steve  _ know. _ “You won’t be able to contact anyone, you won’t be able to go-”

“Buck,” Steve sighs, coming over and making sure each of his movements were visible as he took the other man by his shoulders and gripped, “I know. And I don’t care.”

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes once, eyes a little wide as he takes in Steve in all of his determined glory, bloodied and grim as he left everything behind to burn just so that he could be with Bucky again.

“I’m not your Bucky. I’m not that man and I won’t ever be again.” He says hoarsely, even as his own hand come up to grab onto Steve’s arms and hold on desperately tight.

“I know,” He says softly, and the feeling that rises up in Bucky as the other man stares at him like he’s everything tickles like a memory just out of reach. “And I  _ don’t care.” _

They go to ground, both of them tense as they go to one, then another, then another safe house Bucky had hidden away, then finally Steve closes his eyes, points on a map, and they end up in Nelson, Canada in a little two bedroom house on the outskirts of the town as Stephen Baxter and Alex Buck.

“It’ll explain the nickname.” Bucky had said tense as Steve had silently taken in his assumed name. “And I figured going with your real name would be the best, so you wouldn’t have to get used to being called anything else.”

“I like it.” Steve had nodded, and Bucky had relaxed just the tiniest bit.

They sit tense for the first month, so sure that they were about to be caught that they could barely go outside. But slowly they accept that this is the world they live in, that as long as they were careful and watchful they would be safe, and so they settle in with the ferocity of the desperate.

Steve’s new life becomes the type of good he can barely stand. He wakes up each day in a small bedroom that he’s furnished with the odds and ends and old furniture he found at garage sales and flea markets, a mish-mash of everything he found comfortable and familiar. It takes him months to get everything, but in the end it’s worth it because of how good it all feels. How right.

An old wooden bed frame that was scratched all along the posts and feet and was missing a few spindles, but it almost looked like his mother’s old bed frame so it didn’t even matter that he had to curl up tight each night to go to sleep. A heavy trunk at the foot of his bed, and a bulky desk that took up half the wall but had so many drawers he didn’t have enough things to fill them. A lamp with a big blunt metal base and an old beige lampshade that only took old bulbs that let out warm yellow light.

He fills his closet with heavy flannels and soft t-shirts, khakis and a few pairs of jeans, everything  a little oversized and comfortable.

The rest of the house is decorated the same as his room, cluttered with the bits and bobs he and Bucky had found, though the other man was less likely to bring anything home. A thick ornate rug their elderly neighbor had been throwing out dominated the floor of their small living room, curbside furniture or thrift store finds they babied back to perfection cluttered everywhere. 

What Bucky did bring home was always quietly slid into what was already there, an old oil lamp sat atop their slightly wobbly side table, a horribly patterned armchair shoved in the corner beside the window and bookshelf, and so many throw pillows it looked like they had a problem. Bucky seemed to really like pillows and heavy quilts, soft and gentle things that he would curl into during the bad days, eyes distant and hand trembling as Steve sat on the other side of the room and quietly told him stories of growing up together until he felt more solid.

Bucky grows quiet, calmer as every day provides more safety. He allows Steve closer and closer, speaking a little more each day as they work together to be okay. He pretends with other people, slipping on a charming smile and a vague accent that slipped between Bostonian, Russian, and Canadian depending on the situation and how he had to charm his way out of it.

When the neighbors come Bucky smiles appealingly and explains that they wanted a change of pace, something new, and everyone eats him up with a spoon he acts so sweet. Their cover is solidified with a smile and good old fashioned charm, and to everyone’s mind they become the sweet men who live in a little  house down the street, absolutely nothing to be suspicious over. Bucky gets a job as a mechanic with a falsified work history, saying that a job would normalize them further, and Steve becomes an aspiring artist according to their story, since apparently the town was known for it.

So each day Steve wakes up in his little bedroom, goes for a run with Bucky, comes back home when the sun starts to come up and makes breakfast while Bucky takes a shower in their little box of a bathroom to get ready for work. While Bucky is gone Steve spends his day finding a good light to draw in or reading up on everything he had missed while in the ice on their laptop.

He grows a beard, thick and comforting in how it hides his face, and finds that there is something wonderful in living his life like this.

“When did we meet?” Bucky asks one night while Steve is sketching on the couch, coming up behind hims silently. Steve freezes, fingers tensing around charcoal, but he takes a breath and sets his supplies off to the side and turns to face him.

The man is standing there, hair hanging in damp strings around his face, tense and hunched in on himself so badly it almost looked painful. He’d been getting better, but better didn’t mean good, didn’t mean that the bad nights had stopped or would ever fully stop.

Sometimes memories, his own or those forced upon him, would crash down on him and leave him reeling, so he would come to Steve for clarification, eyes distant and breath thin as he tried to get his mind under his control.

“I was seven and Timothy Wallace was trying to light a stray cat’s tail on fire and, well, I didn’t like that. I tried to get him to stop but he and his friends decided it would be more fun to let the cat go and go after me instead.” Steve stops, and he can feel the way his face goes soft, the way he stares at Bucky a little too long and a little too much like the other man was  _ everything _ . 

Bucky blinks, breath hitching, and Steve tries his best to get it together.

“And there you were,” He said hoarsely, gripping the back of their huge, fluffy couch with it’s awful pastel pattern. “You came down the street and took the whole group of them on yourself and sent them all running. You picked me up, ‘cus I was just a slip of a thing back then, and said  _ ‘I know you nearly had ‘em, but I’ve been looking for a fight.’ _ ” Steve’s breath caught and Bucky’s eyes were wide, and for a moment Steve could almost see it playing out in front of him like it was happening all over again.

Bucky had been neat even back then, hair carefully parted and shoes shining, shorts without a loose stitch on them and his shirt tucked in proper. He’d certainly been mussed after the fight, dirt stains and scrapes galore, but Steve remembers sitting in the dirt looking up at the other boy and feeling his heart miss a beat.

“I took you home with me, my Ma stitched your shirt and let you wash your face so your’s wouldn’t switch you, and I couldn’t seem to get rid of you after.” He finishes, and Bucky seems to struggle with his words for a few moments, but Steve waits patiently.

“It was Willy Weiss. Not Timothy Wallace.” Bucky murmured, a far off look to his face, and Steve felt his throat close up on itself at that.

“I guess I was wrong.” Steve managed to choke out as the other man wandered back into his room, and he spent the rest of the night sitting there feeling completely wrecked.

 

* * *

 

It’s a bit like learning him all over again, which is agonizing because a part of Steve just wants to wake up one day and have Bucky look at him and go “Hey Punk.” Like he always had.

But that wasn’t going to happen, and he could deal with this. It was fine.

New Bucky is quieter, more watchful, more intense as he spends every Wednesday night cleaning his arsenal and going through every single one of his guns to make sure everything was still working well, was still ready for him at a moment’s notice. Every night he would check the perimeter and all the security of the house twice, and every morning he liked to run at a punishing pace that even made Steve ache at times, but he still made sure to stay by the other man’s side.

Steve discovered that Bucky liked musical movies best, older ones that were big and colorful and had grand dance  numbers, and he still liked baseball, yelling at the TV in a way that was more than familiar whenever there was a game on. He wore his hair long but tied it back, which was different but Steve couldn’t say he didn’t like it. He only ever wore long sleeves and a glove on his left hand to hide his metal arm, but the nice sort of clothes that made a hint of old Bucky peek through.

He still shined his shoes every morning, even if they were combat ready boots. He still liked his coffee the same, so strong you could stand a spoon in it. He still cooked Steve special dinners whenever he wasn’t feeling his best, or the sorts of dinners that had been special back when they hadn’t had anything. The kind that were still special because Bucky made it for him, even if the man wasn’t one hundred percent sure why he had decided beef stew was necessary in the middle of summer, couldn’t remember the history behind it. He was still his Bucky, just a little different, but Steve was different too so he didn’t see why he had to let that matter.

But there was no telling what Bucky would remember when those memories hit him, because it could be either the most inconsequential thing or something so big it felt like Steve was giving him the world when he told him. So he really wasn’t expecting Bucky to pause one night when they’re in the middle of dishes, staring out the window distant eyes, dripping clean plate gripped tightly in his flesh hand, and then ask, “Did we used to have sex? Or is that something they put in my head?”

Steve swears and fumbles with the wash-rag, face flushing as he struggles to keep a hold on his sanity. He freezes up like Bucky had just pulled a gun on him, and wishes that alcohol would work on him because this certainly seemed the occasion for it.

“Yes.” He manages after a too long pause, starting to methodically scrub the plate in his hand. “Though we never… We never talked about it like that.” 

“How’d we talk about it, then?” Bucky asks, turning fully toward him to watch with those careful, cautious eyes of his. Steve swallowed, thick and uncomfortable like there were hands pressing down on his throat.

_ I’m gunna love you good, Stevie,  _ He remembers whispered in his ear, hot and heavy over him, Bucky looking at him all intent, like he was worth the world on that thin little bed in their shitty tenement. Steve remembers struggling to breathe and struggling even harder not to show it, wondering if this was how he made all the girls feel or if it was just all his own feelings trying to burst out of his chest.

“We were young.” He admits quietly, like the words are being torn from him and maybe they are but he has to say it, has to get it out because  _ everything  _ had been taken from Bucky, he at least deserved the truth. “We were each other's firsts,”  _ You were my only, “ _ We shared beds more often than we slept alone when we were teens, ‘cus it was warmer and less lonely that way. And God, Buck, you were… You were  _ everything _ and back then I wanted it all for myself in the greedy kind of way you don’t really grow out of like I thought I would. Instead it just grew and grew into all sorts of things and, well, you ended it eventually so…”

Bucky stares at him with wide eyes and shakes his head. “I… He wouldn’t…”

“You were always meant for a family, Buck.” Steve says gently, quirking his lips in an attempt of a smile. “I always knew you would end it one day. You got drafted and that was that.”

Steve almost jumps when Bucky grabs onto his arm, they so rarely touched now that it was almost painful how good that small connection was.

“If there’s one thing I know about Bucky Barnes,” He says harshly, like the words were being dragged out of him with daggers and guns, “It's that he loved you more than anything else he had.”

And with that he leaves, just walking out the house, and a little part of Steve almost hates him for a moment because of how he could do these things to him, how he could just destroy him and walk away like it was so easy. But that passes all too quickly because no matter what Bucky said there was only one real truth in the world, and that was that the only thing that had ever been truly consistent about Steve was how hard he loved Bucky Barnes.

Even though the man had never made it easy.

Bucky comes back three days later, dirty and disheveled and with a bit of prickle on his face but for some reason his eyes looked clearer than they ever had, and before Steve can ask him if he was alright Bucky is talking, hurried and rushed like he can't get the words out fast enough.

“He wanted you to find someone good, a dame that could care for you in the ways that people would allow. He didn’t really expect to survive, or at least not come out of it good because he knew war wasn’t going to be like you’d imagined and,” His voice breaks, “God, Stevie, you  _ wreck  _ me. I thought I was doing good for you by letting you go and it did, you got better and found Carter but how was I supposed to know how it’d kill me?” He asks, that old accent slipping through and Steve couldn’t stop the tears if he tried, moving forward and curling around Bucky like he could pull the other man into himself it he wished hard enough.

“I didn’t want no dame, Buck, I only ever wanted you.” He chokes out, his own accent thickening the words, and Bucky’s metal hand goes to the back of his neck, squeezing tight and holding steady and grounding him.

He doesn’t know who moves into the kiss first but that doesn’t matter because it’s Bucky and he’s been missing him since that first goodbye in 1942. He holds on tight and kisses him deeply, the other man’s lips still so soft, his mouth still so warm. The beards add a bit of a different feeling, Steve’s larger size making everything feel new, but it still feels like coming home.

 

* * *

Bucky had been a bit better about purchasing a bed, getting a huge California king that took up nearly the whole of his room, with a sturdy metal bed frame that didn’t match the furniture that Steve brought in when he moved into the room, but that was more that fine with the both of them.

Thin quilts, old and soft and made by an old woman at the edge of town cover the bed, and the closet gets overstuffed when Steve’s clothes join Bucky’s. Steve’s old room gets turned into an office and a studio for his art, and restless parts of themselves they hadn’t even noticed settle as soon as they manage to intertwine themselves even more fully into one another.

Steve worries for a moment about keeping up appearances by taking apart his old room, but he knew that if anyone got far enough into their home to see that they would have bigger problems than them finding out about their relationship.

Though, as they find out, that might not be that big of a deal either.

They’re walking through the farmer’s market, arms full of vegetables and honey and the organic paints sold by Miss Bees, when they finally take notice of all the rainbow paraphernalia and flags about, forced to when a young man with a brightly colored shirt comes up to them with a flyer.

“Come to the Pride concert on the 12th!” He demands, grinning brightly and leaving them behind staring dumbly at the blatant picture of two men kissing on the page.

They both end up huddled over Bucky’s phone under the security of a large tree in the park, Bucky’s hands shaking as they search the  _ LGBTQ Pride Week _ the flyer touts at the top, and the website connected.

“Buck.” Steve wheezes, for a moment forgetting to breathe again just like he had back when his chest had been thin and nearly concave and air had always seemed to thin and unattainable. “Buck do you see?”

_ Celebrating the anniversary of when same sex marriage was legalized in 2005!  _ The page happily advertises, and it takes hours of looking into legal cases and news articles to accept it as the truth.

“The future is a damned fine place.” Bucky says quietly that night as he keep looking through the evidence on their laptop. “I never would have thought-”

“Let's get married.” Steve interrupts as he puts the last of the pasta in the on to boil, and he stands tall in the silence that follows, tense as he waits for the answer.

Bucky comes up behind him, silent, and places his hands at Steve’s back, head resting on the back of his shoulder.

“I guess I can suck it up. Don’t want anyone else to get stuck with a punk like you.” He says thickly, and the laugh Steve lets out is the happiest sound he had ever made.

 

* * *

 

Stephen Baxter and Alex Buck are married with a simple ceremony in the courthouse followed by the signing of the paperwork on a warm summer morning.

After their jog they have their usual breakfasts and then get ready, Bucky going and shaving, putting on his best aftershave and pulling his hair back  _ just so _ into a neat bun. He presses his pants and shirt, gets out his best shoes and sits down to meticulously shine them.

Steve watches all of this with his heart in his throat, remembering watching Bucky do the same before his dates way back when, where he’d leave with a cocky grin and swagger in his step to go off to the dance clubs to sweep the ladies off their feet. He’d always come back to Steve though, up until the end.

This time, it was all for Steve. 

Steve puts on his best shirt and pants and trims his beard to make it neat, which takes only a fraction of time compared to Bucky. But he’s content to sit there and watch while Bucky gets ready, that sweet-candy taste filling his mouth like it always did when he thought back to to best times of his life before the war that he could still hold on to.

They go to the courthouse and wait their turn, stand and say the prompted vows and sign their names, and then they leave, the whole event occurring with very little fanfare. Steve swallows his nervousness and reminds himself that it's  _ okay _ and takes Bucky’s hand at one point and doesn’t let go until their home.

They stand in their living room, still and silent for a moment as something between them builds until Steve can’t stand it anymore and turns, wrapping his arms around his  _ husband  _ and pulling him close, burying his face in the other man’s neck. 

“Stevie…” Bucky whispers, holding him tight.

“I got you Buck.” He said raggedly, closing his eyes and pressing his face into Bucky’s hair and feeling with a fierceness that almost surprised him that he would protect this life with everything  he had. It was good and sweet and everything he could have dreamed of and more after  waking up out of the ice, and after everything they had been through they deserved it.

For Bucky, for what they had together, he would tear the world apart. And technically, he supposed, he already had.

“I’ve got you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate titles provided by CaptianKenway and co. (though the one used was actually suggested, maybe miracles do exist)-
> 
> Red, White, and Boo  
> John HandCOCK  
> Strings attached


End file.
